


Elemental

by Melanie_Athene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Childhood, Family, Gen, Pre-Quest, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-29
Updated: 2011-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Gaffer scorns "superstitious nonsense," but maybe the old ways should not be entirely forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elemental

**Author's Note:**

> Written November 2005 for Waymeet's "Foreyule" Challenge

When I was a young 'un, the world was a magical place, fair populated with strange sprites who were always out to trip a hobbit up. Fortunately, my gaffer was raised in the old ways, and he always knew the proper thing to do to keep his family safe from harm. A sprinkle of salt across the sill to prevent evil from entering the smial. A bit of milk in a saucer to keep the piskies content. Simple precautions they were to take, and no harm to a living soul if the invisible dangers they guarded against were not really true. I certainly slept better of a night, tucked up in my trundle bed, knowing that the dark world outside my window was safely kept at bay.

I've long since outgrown such childish notions. This world is what a hobbit makes of it -- no more and no less -- and I've done my best to pass this hard-won wisdom on to my own fauntlings. For the most part, I've succeeded. I've raised as level-headed a lot of fine young hobbits as you would ever want to meet. Dependable, honest, hardworking, every one of them. They do me proud.

But as for my youngest lad...

Ah, he's been a worry to me from the start. Eyes always lookin' at some such as no one else can see, ears listening to a voice no other can hear. He's a dreamer, is my Sam. He's always looking for a dragon that might be flying in a bank of low lying clouds. He seeks dwarves in the shadows, elves behind every tree.

And dearly as I hold him in my regard, I place full blame for this sad state of affairs on Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End. Him and his fantastic adventures. Him and his tales that were wilder than any my own Da ever spun.

You see, it's not just that my Sam listens to the stories that Mr. Bilbo so loves to tell... he _believes_ them. He's touched the dragon scale that Mr. Bilbo brought back from his journey. He's held a fine knife forged by dwarves in their mountain. He's listened to our Master recite an elvish ballad, the words lilting off his tongue like birdsong.

So it's no great leap of logic for young Samwise to believe that other fantastic creatures must exist. And no argument I offer, no punishment I threaten will change his mind.

I fear for him, I do. I fear his heart will break in two should the magic that he desires not find him. I fear my own will break if his dream ever does come true.

And so in desperation I take him outside to our wee garden and I tell him my own tales. I speak of leaf and root, soil and sun. This is a magic worth knowing. And Sam's obvious delight in the planting of a seed, the slow unfurling of a flower, brings me hope that I might yet keep him from harm.

He toddles along behind me and for once his eyes bend to the earth where a hobbit's eyes belong. He has the gift, this one does, and no mistake about it. Here is no clumsy child snatching handfuls of seedlings up with the weeds. His mind is keen, his movements sure. He touches each plant with wonder and respect. And I swear they lean towards his gentle touch.

I shake my head to clear it of such idle nonsense. But, as the days go by, I see the truth behind the fancy. The beds my Sam tends stand taller than the ones that know my hand. The weeds grow back more slowly. The blossoms smell more sweet.

“Take him with you, up The Hill,” my Bell advises. “You could use the help, my love. Ye know the older lads' hearts lie elsewhere. Our Sam is a gardener, and no mistake.”

“I'll think on it a spell,” I say. But, of course, the decision has already been made. Sam accompanies me up The Hill the very next morning.

And, for a bit, all is well. Oh, Mr. Bilbo has this odd whimsy of teaching my lad his letters, but I don't let that worry me overmuch. The garden is Sam's world now, that is as plain as plain. Scratching in the dirt brings him more pleasure than scribbling a quill across paper. Fresh air is more to his liking than the scent of musty books.

Or so I thought for a long, happy while.

But, I reckon my Da spoke true. Once the fair-folk lay claim upon you, they will not willingly set you free. Sam was marked from birth to become their own.

There were charms I could have made, chants I could have sung. I should have told my lad all of the old tales. It's my fault he doesn't realize his danger! I scoffed at the old ways. I have failed my son.

And it happened in a heartbeat.

“Hamfast, Samwise, come meet my new heir,” Mr. Bilbo called to us. And, all unsuspecting, we dusted off our hands and britches and went to greet our future master.

He was a frail-looking waif. All dark hair and brilliant eyes. Eyes the colour of which I'd never seen before. Blue as the Bywater Pool reflecting the summer sky. Mutably blue, and sparkling like the Brandywine's swiftly flowing waters in the spring. His skin was pale, like the foam that dances in the rapids just below Sandyman's Mill. His smile was shy, like a quiet, tranquil pond. His motions were fluid and graceful. Water... water... why did he so remind me of water?

 _Neckan. Gindylow. Nixie._ The old names rush through my mind, my father's warnings tumbling after. Tales of hobbits lost and tragically found drowned. Tales of inevitable enchantment, undying love, heartbreak and doom...

A hobbit can't live without water. There's no resisting its allure. It's a necessity of life, and that's a fact. But a hobbit's never meant to plunge himself into deep waters and lose sight of the shore.

You don't listen to a selkie's call. You never let it know your name.

“Hello, Sam,” a soft voice murmurs.

And as my lad lifts up his eyes to meet the elemental's, I know that he is lost.


End file.
